


Christmas Never

by bwblack



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwblack/pseuds/bwblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Christmases John Watson and Sherlock Holmes never shared and one they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Secondary School

He doesn’t want to go to the party. He isn’t good at parties. There are too many people, too much noise. His always heightened senses get overloaded with all the phony posturing of people trying to get off with people they’ve only just met and won’t remember in the morning.

He’s away at school most of the year. He doesn’t know the kids from his village. He doesn’t want to.

He goes anyway, it’s that or listen to Mycroft blather on about something dull, boring.

At the party he listens to the chatter all around him and wonders if he wouldn’t have been better with Mycroft.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” A girl near him touches her hair, giggles.

She does have a boyfriend.

“I love that band.” A boy on his left.

The boy has never heard of that band, the boy has never heard of anything that doesn’t get radio play on the most banal and boring of channels.

“Have some punch?” A girl offers.

The punch is spiked. He takes it. The alcohol is harsh, bitter. Enough of it, though, and he won’t mind.

He drinks a glass, two, three.

His head feels heavy. It’s not unpleasant.

The lies swirling around him become bigger, more amusing.

“I’ve never…”

She has.

“I have… loads of times.”

He hasn’t.

Sherlock drinks more punch. His head is so heavy now he wonders how he never notices this when he's sober. That his neck can hold the weight of the head seems miraculous.

A blond boy smiles at him from the punch bowl.

He smiles back.

He returns to his corner.

The boy follows. “John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Never seen you here before.”

“Never been here before.”

“That would explain it.” John grins, takes a sip of punch.

“That stuff is lethal”

“Thank you.”

“You made it?”

“My mother made it. I improved it.”

“This is your house, then?”

“Yes. I’ve not seen you here before.”

“I can go.”

“Don’t.”

He doesn’t know what John’s angle is. It disturbs him. “I should go.”

“Don’t.” John repeats.

“Why should I stay?” Sherlock asks.

“You are the only interesting thing here.” John’s voice is a deep, hoarse whisper as he moves closer.

“It’s mutual.” Sherlock croaks. He hates the obvious arousal in his voice, he’s tries desperately not to think of the arousal elsewhere.

John moves closer still, his thumb brushes against Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock groans.

John’s lips are millimeters from Sherlock’s ear. “I'm glad you came.”

He is.

“I think you’re very interesting.”

He does.

“I want to see more of you.” John says his body pressing Sherlock’s into the wall. “Much more.”

He will.


	2. University

Sherlock wanders into the morgue at Bart's. “You aren’t going home for the holiday?”

“I picked up extra hours.“ John doesn’t look up. He’s never been away from home over the holiday. He didn’t think he’d mind.

“You wish you were home.” Sherlock accuses.

“I didn’t think that I would.” John sighs.

“What do you miss about it?” Sherlock takes a seat at the end of an empty table. If it bothers him that John hasn’t looked up, he doesn’t say.

“The food, the drink, the cheer.” That isn’t that, but it’s as close as he’s come to identifying it.

“Why didn’t you go home?” Sherlock asks.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’m having an early dinner with Mycroft.”

“Why are you here?”

“Not this early. Why didn’t you go home?”

“Last year Harriet brought home a girl. It was awkward.” John explains, regretfully. “I liked the girl. She was funny and smart and Harry was different with her, better. My mother didn’t say anything, at all, for four days. My father said many of things.”

“What about you?”

“I didn’t say enough.” John looks at Sherlock for the first time. “Two weeks later I meet you.”

“I wasn’t your first.”

“The first that’s mattered.” John smiles, sadly.

Sherlock slides off the table and moves to his lover. “It’s different now?”

“I owed her better. I don’t want to face her. I don’t want to face them. I don’t want to fail Harry or myself, again.”

“But you wish you were there?”

“Yes.” John admits.

“It’s not too late.”

“I’ve missed the last train. I don’t have a car.”

“Come to dinner with my brother. He’ll lend you one.”

“Why would your brother lend me a car?”  
\--

Mycroft is waiting at the restaurant when they arrive. He has reservations for two. John worries he’s intruding.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watson.”

The table is set for three. “You too, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mycroft, please. You are studying to be a doctor.”

“You’ve mentioned me?” John asks Sherlock, surprised, flattered.

“No.” Mycroft answers. “But I wouldn’t take it personally. He never mentions anything to me.”

“Why would I?” Sherlock asks as the waitress brings them food they haven’t ordered.

“I took the liberty.” Mycroft says, “It’s just something light. You have another stop to make.”

“You said he didn’t tell…”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock admits as he sniffs the food that has just been placed in front of him. He pushes it away and takes a sip of water.

“It’s not poison.” Mycroft’s takes his fork and spears a potato. He pops it into his mouth, chews dramatically and swallows. “See?”

“I’ll pass.”

“He suspects I have the antidote in my coat pocket.”  
\--

“You’re nervous.” Sherlock says as they turn onto the street where John’s parents live.

“I don’t know what to expect.” John fingers tap a manic melody on the window of Mycroft’s car.

“If it’s terrible you can leave. The car will be waiting.”

“We could drive away right now.” The car pulls to a stop in front of his childhood home. Every light is ablaze. John can tell by the cars in the drive that his sister is there. He isn’t sure he has the nerve.

“We’ve come all this way.” Sherlock says.

“You’re worried about the wasted petrol?”

“No.”

“Let’s go, before I’m spotted.”

“They wouldn’t know the car.”

John nods. No member of his family has ever ridden in a chauffeured car unless on their way to a funeral, even then.

“I can’t do this.”

“You can.” Sherlock squeezes his hand.

“Come with me?”

“I suspect that would make it worse.”

“Yes.” John agrees.

“You will be fine.”

“Come with me?”

“You’re sure?”

“No.”

“You need to relax.”

“Think Mycroft keeps a spare pint in here?” John laughs.

“I can think of quicker ways to relax.”

John looks at him, confused.

Sherlock slides his hand to John’s leg, then to his belt, pressing firmly as he turns his head to make contact with his partner’s neck.

“We can’t.” John protests but moves closer.

“We can.” Sherlock takes John’s earlobe between his teeth.

“The driver?” John gasps.

“Has seen worse, I am sure.” Sherlock presses his lips to John’s to end the conversation.

John’s protest end when his zipper is released and Sherlock’s cold hand strokes along the sensitive skin as he’s pulled free.

He holds Sherlock’s hand when they walk into the house. He couldn’t be more relaxed.


	3. Building

John doesn’t notice, at first, that Sherlock is drowning. He notices Sherlock pulling away. At first he doesn’t mind. He’s busy with work. He’s trying to get ahead, to make a name for himself, a career.

Some nights, when he drags himself home, he finds Sherlock waiting. They don’t need words. They connect, again, and again, and again. When he is nearly too spent to breathe, he falls into a deep but shockingly short sleep.

On nights he finds his flat empty, the extra hours of rest keep him going. It’s a balancing act.

When Sherlock’s visits begin to decline, John honestly believes it’s just a shift in the balance. The intensity of what they share, the passion is so much more when they've been apart. John puts in more hours at work. He’s in top form.

He misses Sherlock. It is temporary.

When December arrives, John realizes he hasn’t spoken to Sherlock in more than a month, hasn’t seen him in weeks. The disconnect disturbs him; that they no longer speak terrifies him.

He calls as soon as he does the math. It’s 3am, no answer. He leaves a message.

The following day he leaves work the moment his shift ends. He knocks on Sherlock’s door at 7:00.

Nothing.

He calls again. The machine is full.

He finds a pub across the street. He drinks a pint. He watches Sherlock’s door. He drinks another. Nobody comes or goes. An hour later he tries again. By last call he’s tried six times.

He gets a cab home. Sherlock isn’t waiting.

The following morning John calls in sick. He’s at Sherlock’s door by 9. He brings a book to read while he waits.

247 pages later, Sherlock arrives. He smiles, but doesn’t make eye contact.

“Been a while.” John regrets saying it. Those aren’t the words he wants after six weeks of silence.

“You’ve noticed?” Bitterness oozes from Sherlock’s voice.

John’s glad for the emotion. Sherlock still cares. “I have noticed.”

Sherlock opens the door. “Are you coming in?”

The usual chaos of Sherlock’s flat stopped surprising John in their second week. Nothing about this chaos is normal, not even at Sherlock’s most manic. John is stunned. He wonders how long it’s been building… the piles, the clutter, the empty take away boxes, the full ones. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sits perched on the arm of a chair. John can’t identify what is in the seat.

“Talk to me.”

Sherlock hops off the chair.

“Please.” John implores.

Sherlock stares out the window.

John places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, forcing eye contact.

His eyes are wild. He pulls away.

John holds tighter. “Look at me.”

Sherlock focuses for only a second before resuming his attempt to escape.

John understands. “This isn’t recreational.”

“Get out!” Sherlock breaks free and moves as far away as he can manage within the confines of his small flat.

“No.” John stands firm.

“Leave.” Sherlock insists.

“No. It’s gotten away from you.”

“It’s not your concern. Go."

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I am.” Sherlock is gone before John can stop him.

John goes to the kitchen to get some bags for the trash. He starts in the far corner and begins to clean. He takes off the first layer of grime, then the second, then the third. By the time he’s scrubbed down the walls he’s missed three days of work.

When he returns to his job, it’s not because he’s worried about his career, his bank account, or even his patients. He has nowhere else to go. Sherlock’s flat is lifeless, ghostly without its usual occupant. John’s flat contains too many memories. Every surface of his life is one that has been touched by Sherlock. The hospital is John’s only safe place.

He volunteers to work on Christmas Eve and again on Christmas day. It’s an excuse to sleep in the building. He can’t be home today. He’s slept, tried to sleep in the break room, it’s an hour before his next shift. He needs coffee. On the way he sees a familiar figure. He nearly faints. “Mycroft?”

“I was going to call. I’ve only just got him here. I think…”

“Overdose?”

“Yes.”

John rushes into Sherlock’s room. He no longer needs coffee, or sleep, or air.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, hours later, John is by his side.

“You are going to be okay.” John assures him.

“I need help.”

“I’m here.” John squeezes his hand.


	4. Enlistment

He hasn’t seen John in months. They’ve phoned. They’ve texted. They’ve emailed. Once in a fit of real desperation he took pen to paper and wrote a physical letter. These are the things he’s reduced to without John in his life, in his bed.

He knew he’d miss his lover. He had no idea how much. They’d been off and on and off again for longer than Sherlock cared to recount. Since John joined the Royal Army Medical Corps, Sherlock has deeply regretted every hour the wasted off.

They’ve been three months without each other before. This is different, harder. He knows after this John will be away for longer, much longer stretches of time. John will be deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan. Either is too far for Sherlock. He refuses to think about the danger.

He’s never thought of John as less than fit. But the man who meets him at the train station is cut in a way that takes Sherlock by surprise. It’s only been three months. John’s once floppy hair is cut short. It suits. His posture has straightened. It’s becoming.

It will take some getting used to.

“Hey,” John says casually when they finally reach one another. It isn’t exactly a cinematic reunion, or maybe it is. The station is bustling with people coming and going on their way to Christmas celebrations. People are carrying packages and parcels and things wrapped up in bows. The frenetic rush all around them only heightens, in Sherlock’s mind, their own oddly stilted reunion.

“Hey yourself,” Sherlock answers. “So…” It is awkward. It’s never awkward between them but it is now. He hates the awkward.

“Good trip?”

“Alright,” the answer is curt and Sherlock regrets it at once. He isn’t helping the awkwardness.

“Good.”

“Yes,” when did they become people who exchanged only syllables?

“Food?”

“Fine,” maybe he should turn around and get back on the train.

“There is a Chinese place not far from the hotel, it’s not bad. You’ll approve of the door handle, in any case.”

Sherlock wonders if they wouldn’t fare better at a pub.

John lifts the bag off Sherlock’s shoulder, grabs his wrist, and guides him through the crowd of travelers to the street outside.

Sherlock takes the crisp clean air into his lungs and watches his breath expel into the air in front of him. The temperature has dropped significantly since he left London and the glow around the moon makes him hopeful for snow.

The restaurant is just far enough that Sherlock is glad to come out of the cold. The waitress brings a pot of green tea when she seats them. Sherlock holds the cup in his hands to arm them.

John smiles, “your cold hands…”

“Yes?” Sherlock asks puzzled.

“I’ve missed them,” John admits.

Sherlock’s voice quavers, “yes?”

“Yes.”

“Just the hands?”

“No.”

Sherlock smiles, “at the station, it was…”

John looks away, “yes.”

The waitress comes to take their order. They haven’t opened a menu.

Sherlock waves her away.

“The way we left things, I wasn’t sure…”

“We’ve talked, we’ve emailed, I wrote…”

“I know.”

Sherlock looks away, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“Yes, yes, you do. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“You left.”

“For training, for four months.”

“And then again, and again, and again.”

“I’ll be deployed, yes.”

“I’m supposed to cheer you on then? When you’re being deployed to a war zone? Do you even support the war?”

“I support the soldiers, Sherlock! They need doctors. Good ones. I’m descent.”

“You’re a bloody brilliant doctor.”

“Thank you,” John’s cheeks tint, slightly.

“You can be bloody brilliant in London. In Afghanistan you might end up actually bloody.”

John laughs, “I’m a doctor. I won’t be on the front lines.”

“Yet, I keep getting texts with your firing range results.”

“Best results for a medical officer in the history of the facility,” John beams.

“Yes, you’re quite good at the soldiering. It suits you. I didn’t think it would. But it looks good on you.”

“You’ve not seen me in uniform.”

“Will I?”

“At the hotel, bit vulgar to wear it when not on duty.”

“Bit vulgar what I plan to do to it…well, to you in it, as well.”

“Cheque please.”

“We haven’t ordered.”

"Right," John stands.

Sherlock grabs his bag and smiles apologetically at the waitress.

As they step out into the cold, John takes his hand.


End file.
